


Sparks of Memory

by beefcakebuck



Category: Bucky Barnes - Fandom, Captain America, Marvel, the winter soldier - Fandom
Genre: Bucky Barnes - Freeform, Bucky remembers, Captain America - Freeform, M/M, The Winter Soldier - Freeform, post winter soldier, steve rogers - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-07-27 10:08:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7613959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beefcakebuck/pseuds/beefcakebuck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky usually blocks out any memories threatening to cloud up his mind, but not when he was with Steve. Steve not only helped him remember, but made him more comfortable with letting the memories play out in his head. Bucky's in Steve's room when he remembers things about Steve he'd known his whole life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sparks of Memory

Bucky's been spending a lot of time in Steve's room. Sometimes, he'd tag along if Steve was making a run to the store to pick up some groceries for the Tower or if he was heading to the gym with Nat, but he was almost always with him. But when he and Steve were in his bedroom, he felt calm. When Bucky was in HYDRA, things like calmness, gentleness and things of that nature, were beaten out of him, so whenever he were fortunate enough to feel anything like that, it felt foreign, unnatural, but strangely familiar. 

Bucky didn't have to explain for Steve to know that being with him helped Bucky remember. There was something comforting about Steve that made Bucky feel safe and didn't make him feel afraid when spurts of memories sparked in the back of his mind. His head usually hurt when he started seeing things play out in his mind like a movie that he mildly remembered watching as a kid, but when he was with Steve, his head only ached slightly, bearably.

Today, Steve was slightly hunched over his desk, scribbling notes & theories onto a sheet of paper while he listened intently to a news report on the computer JARVIS pulled up, to Steve's request.

Bucky sat comfortably on Steve's bed, watching him fondly. With his back rested against the jumble of pillows, one leg hanging off the side, the other laid out across the puffy duvet, he picked at the comforter beneath him, enjoying the peaceful silence. It wasn't very often that he'd be able to enjoy the quiet, what with missions flooding in left and right, brain storms where everyone was huddled around a white board, movie nights that everyone in the Tower was required to attend and of course, Tony's loud AC/DC playing obnoxiously throughout the building, even though Bucky secretly nodded his head to it when no one was looking, of which he would never, ever admit.

Bucky scooted from the headboard to the edge of the bed, letting his feet hang off, still watching Steve, ready to ask him if he has anymore leads or if he needed any help but he was rudely interrupted.

Abruptly, little flashbacks started playing in his mind, almost like a terribly edited montage. Normally, Bucky would be startled and instinctively block out the memories to keep himself from crying out in pain or pushing everyone away to prevent himself from lashing out at them. But it was different with Steve. It's always different with Steve.

He saw Steve. He was smiling as wide as ever, wearing his nice, dark blue collared shirt, with too-big slacks and dress shoes; his Sunday Best. But they weren't at church and Bucky wasn't nodding off in his seat, just to be elbowed by his best friend. Behind Steve's excited eyes was the life of a carnival, whipping and whirring beyond them, but Bucky remembered he barely cared about what was going on around them. He was only concentrated on Steve, who happily accepted the stuffed dog Bucky so selflessly offered to him. He remembered the laughs. He remembered the banter. He remembered the nickname he kept calling Steve that night.

The memory ended quickly, jumping to the next so quick Bucky felt a little dizzy, closing his eyes to concentrate.

Steve was in the kitchen. He peeked over a large pot on the stove, stirring. He waved away the steam that rose from the stove into his face. He was making dinner while his mom was at work. From the kitchen table, Bucky watched the small man look around the kitchen. Defeat stood with Steve as he sighed, turning to Bucky. Reluctantly, he asked him if he could reach into the highest cabinet to retrieve a few important ingredients. Bucky obliged easily.

The next memory flickered over the previous one as Bucky tried to control the pace.

Bucky was reading a book, curled up against the arm rest of Steve's old couch, with Steve tucked into his side. The smell of rain lingered in through the cracked window in the living room. He looked to his left to see the boy's golden hair, causing him to lift his hand from his book and run his fingers through the locks of blonde, only to be rewarded with a pleasant hum. Bucky continued to finger through the younger boy's hair, before he looked down at Steve's lap, at the sketchpad he was hunched over, sketching, shading, penciling in. He was so concentrated on his art, like the more he drew the further away he was from the real world. Locking his fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, watching Steve sketch, smiling when he'd occasionally huff, before flipping his pencil over to erase an error. But Bucky never saw anything wrong with Steve's drawings.

More memories flooded in uncontrollably, flipping from clip to clip in jump cuts. Bucky shook his head slightly, rubbing his tired eyes.

"Stop," he whispered to himself, pushing away the thoughts that fogged up his head. Thankfully, Steve didn't hear, for he was too involved in his studies and research to notice.

After a moment, Bucky's mind was clear and he didn't feel dizzy anymore.

"Steve," he mumbled. Steve straightened up, turning toward his best friend.

"Yeah, Buck?"

"Do you," he scratched at the scruff on his face, trying to find the words to say,"do you still have that stuffed dog I gave you at the carnival during summer?" he asked, earning a smile from Steve.

"I don't," Steve shook his head a bit, shifting his chair to face Bucky fully,"everything was gone when I woke up."

Bucky simply nodded, dropping his eyes to the floor, afraid he'd forget the few memories that made him feel warmer that he's ever felt. A few times, Bucky'd forget the flashbacks, leaving him cold & frustrated to no end.

"You were in your Sunday Best," Bucky smiled, thinking back to the oversized pants Steve held up tightly with a belt. "Your pants never seemed to fit correctly." Bucky chuckled.

Steve just listened, smiling softly. He always loved hearing what Bucky remembered, even the bad stuff. Once, Bucky remembered a heated argument they had one night. After he told Steve of his flashback, he apologized over and over, even after Steve had forgiven him. Steve knew he'd forgive him directly after the fight, but would act as if be were still mad. He could never stay mad at Bucky.

"I usedta," he started, pausing to gaze around at the floor as if it held the script he was supposed to be reading. "I usedta call you Stevie. That was my nickname for you." Bucky lifted his head, meeting Steve's eyes, searching for reassurance. 

"Right?" he said, a decibel over a whisper. Bucky's armer was breaking, cracking, as it did whenever he recited memories to Steve. He was getting vulnerable now and Steve loved him like this. He always got more out of him when he was like this and he seemed to be more physically affectionate.

Steve nodded, still smiling his soft smile. Bucky looked down again, nibbling at his plump bottom lip.

"Stevie," Bucky mumbled. "Stevie." he said again. Steve felt like a wet ball of paper was lodged in his throat at the sound of Bucky repeating the very name Bucky had called him since they were kids, shooting pretend guns in the playground.

"Kinda like the way that sounds." Bucky chuckled, looking up at Steve once more, shattering the intensity of the moment, causing Steve to let out a grateful breath he'd been holding, because he liked the sound of that too.

"I remember," he says,"you were always drawing. We'd always be inside when the weather was bad, on the couch at - was it your house?" Bucky asked.

Steve nodded. He wanted to tell him how often he'd stress that he'd rather be at Steve's house than his own, but he decided he wanted Bucky to remember that little detail by himself.

"It was raining." Bucky continued,"I remember the smell of it. It was nice. It was like..." Bucky paused and eyes squinted the slightest bit, almost like he was digging the corners of his brain, trying to find the right words.

"Gentle. Soothing. It was so quiet and you were so... invested in your sketches. And-and I," Bucky stopped again, feeling embarrassed, but why would he? These were memories, not fantasies, he reminded himself.

"I touched your hair. It was soft and smooth and I ran my fingers through over and over. Almost like I was hypnotized." Bucky smiled at the memory, eyes flickering up to Steve's blonde hair, hoping he didn't catch it. But Steve did.

"How?" Steve asked, scooting closer, wanting to feel Bucky touch him.

Bucky stared at Steve for a moment, hesitant. He didn't remember much about touching other people softly, he'd been trained that if you're going to touch them, you have to hurt them. No mercy. Steve was teaching him otherwise.

He lifted his right hand and ran it through Steve's beautiful locks, repeating the motion from his memory. Steve sighed pleasantly, closing his eyes, while his lips parted slightly.

Bucky fingered through his hair, all the way to the nape of his neck and ran his hand from there, up the back of his head. He started from the front again, slower this time, catching strands of hair between his thumb and first finger. He felt Steve lean into the touch, craving more, so Bucky gave.

"My...my Stevie." he whispered, lovingly, causing Steve to sigh happily, eyes still closed.

Bucky watched Steve's face fall from tense to ease, just by the touch of his hand and that made him smile.

Bucky hadn't played with Steve's hair in so long. Steve craved it more often than not, but he refrained from mentioning it before Bucky did, for fear of frightening him & making him back peddle further into his shell. Bucky was finally creeping out, slowly but surely and Steve didn't want to be absent for any second of it. Steve missed his touch so much, he thought he might cry.

"Do you still draw, Stevie?" Bucky whispered. Steve's eyes opened. 

They were inches from each other now, as Steve had slowly migrated closer to Bucky, like he was the sun and Steve was the Earth.

Bucky's hand stilled at the back of his head, just as it had in his memory, waiting for Steve's answer.

"Not as often as I'd like to, but yes," Steve smiled,"I do." Bucky smiled, relief surfacing in his blue eyes. Relieved that everything he'd remember wasn't all stuck in the past, certain things, comforting things, slipped through to the present and Bucky didn't know why, but that thought made him feel like everything was going to be okay. That Steve would be okay, that Bucky would be okay. That they'd be okay.

"I'll show you." Steve replied, reluctantly scooting away from Bucky's touch, only to have his fingers slip from the back of his head, against the side of his neck and his hand fell back into his lap. All of a sudden, Bucky had this endless need to keep Steve close, to keep him near, so he could keep touching him. Bucky reminded himself that he'd be back in a matter of seconds, but he couldn't help himself from missing the warmth of Steve's skin.

He wasn't used to feeling this way, wanting to keep Steve as close as humanly possible but Bucky was slowly being swallowed by the need and couldn't bring himself to care.

Sitting on Bucky's right, on the edge of the bed, Steve opened a black sketchbook. It was just a bit bigger than Steve's hand so it fit perfect in his grip. Bucky watched his fingers, shifting close to keep their thighs touching.

He reached his right hand around Steve's broad frame, tucking it against his thigh gently, thumbing over the material of his pants. Steve only smiled, flipping to the first sketch of the book. They sat like this for a bit, Bucky gazing curiously over each carefully drawn picture, his hand eventually making its way to Steve's hair because he felt like it belonged there.

Steve turned the page again and Bucky eyes widened slightly, before he leaned closer. It was a sketch of him.

"Is that," Bucky looked at Steve,"is that me?" he asked. Steve nodded, smiling sheepishly, pushing the sketchbook into Bucky's hand, the other still gently twisting strands of hair around his fingers.

The drawing was of Bucky, sitting on a couch, head tilted back, laughing, with his hand pressed against his chest.

"After you fell off the train, there were times I'd wake up at four AM, from a dream about you. I didn't want to forget them so I drew out some of it and wrote it out here," Steve explained, turning the page over to show two long paragraphs.

"Sometimes I'd dream memories. Sometimes I'd dream about things we would've done if I never got the serum or if I got to you sooner." Steve stopped but Bucky knew he wasn't finished, so he looked up at him, giving an encouraging nod.

"But I had nightmares just as often." he mumbled, frowning. "I'd draw those out too, but it was always too much for me so I'd ended up ripping them up and throwing them away." Bucky somehow knew that was Steve's way of coping with whatever happened in his dream.

Quickly shifting Bucky's focus, Steve flipped over a few pages to another sketch of him.

"This one's my favorite," Steve smiled down at the pencil marks. "This was a picture my mom had framed in the living room. It's gone now but I dreamt about it once. I'm surprised I didn't draw it sooner. It was one of out best pictures." Steve rambled, before he realized he might have said too much and that he might have pushed too much onto Bucky. He held his breath again, looking at Bucky, who was staring at the sketch. 

Bucky had his arm wrapped tightly around Steve's neck, pulling him impossibly close as Bucky leaned into him, both bending at the hips. Steve's hand was pushing against Bucky's ribs, but he was smiling. It looked like the beginning of winter, for they both had jackets over their shoulders.

Bucky remembered.

He remembered this moment. He remembered the familiar sound of Steve's laugh as he tried to push his strength against Bucky's lean body, not moving the older boy an inch.

"Hold still, Stevie," Bucky remembers laughing down at Steve as his mom snapped a photo with an old camera. He remembered the snow falling around them. He remembered the soft punch to his gut once the picture was taken, causing Bucky to pick Steve up and throw him over his shoulder without a struggle, while he squirmed and laughed.

Bucky inhaled sharply, as the actual picture flickered over the drawing over and over again, the memory hitting him like a ton of bricks.

"I remember." Bucky breathed. Steve went still, staring at the side of Bucky's face.

"I remember." Bucky repeated, his eyes meeting Steve's, smiling.

"I remember this. You were pushing me away and you were laughing and your Ma was telling us to keep still and you hit me so I picked you up and carried you on my shoulder. Your Ma was cracking up. A few days later she came home from work with the picture framed and put it on the coffee table in the middle of the living room." Bucky was breathing a little heavier now, trying to get everything out before he could forget. He gripped the back of Steve's neck gently, but looked like a madman.

"She got mad at us once. I was chasing you around the living room, while she was in the kitchen, making dinner. I think I was trying to tickle you. You tripped over the carpet and I fell on top of you and we shook the table and the frame fell. Your Ma's eyes got so big. She would've had our asses if it broke. She ended up putting it next to her chair, right? So we would be less likely to break it." Bucky paused, thinking about the chair.

"She used to knit in that chair. She made us matching scarves. She made us promise to always where them whenever we went outside. I loved your mom, didn't I?"

Steve was smiling so wide the corners of his mouth almost reached his ears. He nodded, laughing.

"She loved you too, Buck. She was half the reason you were always at my place, she always wanted you over for dinner." Bucky smiled even wider, pulling Steve closer instinctively.

"I remember." he whispered finally, closing his eyes as his forehead pressed against Steve's. Bucky thought back as far as he could to their lives back home, back before the Winter Soldier, before Captain America, before the war. Before it all.

"Sometimes I wish we were still in Brooklyn." Bucky said softly. "I don't remember all of it, but I remember enough to know how much it felt like home." Bucky loved saying those words. I remember. He could get used to it.

"Me too, Buck." Steve whispered, leaning into his touch. "Me too."

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading!! comments completely welcome. i'd love to hear any pointers or advice!


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